


Of Broken Dreams

by kirana



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Gen, Insanity, Pre-Slash, Sorceress War aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-26
Updated: 2005-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-15 06:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2219706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirana/pseuds/kirana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thin line of sanity.</p>
<p>Written for 's <i>Final Fantasy FanFic Exchange</i>; <i>Seifer during and after Time Compression</i> in 2005</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Broken Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted [here](http://ffantasy-yaoi.livejournal.com/22117.html)and has been uploaded to AO3 on 14/08/29 in an attempt to get more of my fic in one place.

        Who are you?

        He didn't know. He'd never known. He would probably never know.

        Where are you?

        Wow, an easy question to answer. He was here. He'd always been here.

        Where is 'here'?

        'Here' was _here_ , dumbass. A long, wandering line. A window on one side of the line showing sometimes people, sometimes white. A desert on the other side, curiously . . . wrong. Stretched, squished, both at the same time.

        What is the window?

        Heh, search him. It kept pace with him, showing him things he didn't know and didn't care about. Sometimes, though, he'd keep an eye on it as he walked, letting its soundless entertainment keep him company.

        What is the desert?

        Geez, who kept asking those stupid questions? The desert was the desert. It was strange and terrifying, he didn't mind admitting that. Enough so that he stayed on the line and didn't wander even a careless toe into the strange land. He didn't want it to suck him in. The roiling sky wouldn't be good for his complexion, he was sure.

        What is the line?

        Wow, an even _more_ asinine question. He hadn't thought the clueless person had it in . . . whatever it was. The line was the line, like the desert was the desert and the window was the window. They just _where_. Although, if he wanted to get philosophical, he'd probably say something like the window was his past, the line was his present, and the desert was his future, what with it being so undefined and all. All lies, of course, but he'd only say that if he was trying to be philosophical and impress the . . . someone. Impress someone. If he had to hazard a guess, he'd say the line was something he walked on. It gave him something to do and, besides, the window didn't show pictures if he sat still. He had to rest, of course, but it never lasted long before he was too bored to stay still and was up and moving again.

        Who would you impress?

        Oh, just someone. He can't remember their name, of course. Or what they looked like. Or why he wanted to impress them. They're from Before.

        What is 'Before'?

        Before is Before. Before was there before the line and the window and the desert. He knew his name Before. Before wasn't important.

        Why is 'Before' unimportant?

        Cut a guy some slack, okay? Before is unimportant because it is Before. If it was important, he would have remembered, wouldn't he? Of course he would have. Therefore, Before was not important.

        Now shut up and leave me alone. I don't have time to entertain you.

***

        The next time he looked at the window, it showed a familiar scene. Well, familiar in that he'd seen it before in the window. Curved blue walls, grey and a few other colours layered on it for some contrast. It was night in the window; he would see the darkness beyond the lights surrounding the garden. It was a pretty garden, full of soothing greens. But sometimes there was red flowers and so he was happy when the window left the garden and started again with the blue corridors. Boring, maybe, but boring beat red any day.

        Wow, the window bumped into something. It wasn't the first time he'd witnessed the jerk in the picture and he wished the window was more careful about where it was going. When it jerked while he was watching, he staggered a bit in sympathy. He'd almost landed in the desert last time. He could still hear the shriek of the wind as, at the last moment, he caught his balance and denied it him.

        It was that guy in front of him again. The one with the permanent marker on his cheek that never faded—as if he didn't have enough things messing with his mind; did the guy reapply it daily or did it just never, ever fade?—and the hair that stood straight up. Heh. Reminded him of something. Something yellow, just like the guy's hair?

        Oh, hey, marker-guy was talking. Damn, if he could have one thing in here, he'd want sound from the window. His lip-reading wasn't too good and he couldn't quite make out what the guy was yelling about. Waving his arms about furiously. Geez, he was such a spaz. Couldn't be good for his blood pressure.

        Although . . . it _was_ kinda amusing to watch.

        Hey, he was in for a real treat this time. Marker-guy had dragged the window after him and found the person he'd personally dubbed as Scaar because of the scar on his face. Kid didn't look old enough to have a scar like that, but, well, maybe he'd run into doors a lot or something. He kinda liked it when the window went with Scaar. He was less amusing that marker-guy and infinitely more calming to be around. The window didn't jerk half as much when it was in the care of Scaar.

        Once, the window had followed Scaar into a jungle-type place. _That_ had been something to see. Scaar had just _gone_ after some strange and creepy moving vegetation—if he ever had a choice, he was so going to opt for a carnivorous diet. At least meat was _supposed_ to move—with a big sword-like thing and, _bam_ , sliced them to bits. It had been neat to watch. He wanted a sword like that, too. Although it wasn't really a sword, 'cause it had a trigger and had reacted like a gun would when Scaar had pulled the trigger. He decided to call it a swordgun. Man, he _really_ wanted a swordgun. Not like Scaar's, of course, because following someone else's lead so obviously was a major faux pas, but maybe he could get his in black. Yeah . . . . And thinner, too, 'cause he didn't think he'd be strong enough to lift up the monster of the swordgun Scaar had. And he lifted it like it was a feather! Maybe it was magic.

        Wait, back to the window again and away from the hacking and slashing he'd been doing with his imaginary swordgun. Marker-guy had run off and now the window was following Scaar. It followed him through a sliding door and into a private sort of area. Living quarters? He hadn't been there before; usually the window followed Scaar to a white place and then stayed there to be moved this way and that by an old woman. Well, okay, so maybe she wasn't _that_ old, but why did it want to stay with her and not follow Scaar around? Damn, if he wasn't watching the window for free, he'd demand a refund.

        Whoops, more action in the window. He grinned ferally when he saw the Prima girl rush into the room, probably intending to throw herself into Scaar's lap and generally act like a little girl. He snorted. Bitch. Any minute now . . . . Prima was scared of the window for some reason, although how anyone could be scared of a window was beyond him. It wasn't like they could see him on this side; he'd tested it out with a few rude gestures and, yeah, maybe he'd mooned the window as best as he could a time or two. Nah, they couldn't see him.

        And there it was, the shriek of terror. And the best part yet! Prima fell backwards over Scaar's chair! Maybe he didn't want sound after all. He was pretty sure that shriek woulda been high in decibels and he kinda liked his hearing.

        Damn, how did Scaar do it? He just didn't react to Prima's angry pointing and dramatics. Did the guy not have a temper or something? His admiration for Scaar just grew and grew every time he saw him deal with Prima, with marker-guy, and even with Sylph and Ravine. Or maybe especially with Sylph; that girl had a double-dose of whatever marker-guy took every time he saw her through the window.

***

        Why are you here?

        Dammit, why wouldn't that person just shut up? He was here because here was where he was. Very zen, he was sure, but no less true because of that. Besides, the line hadn't run out yet, so, _obviously_ , mister dumb person who asks stupid questions, his journey wasn't finished yet.

        What is the journey?

        A metaphor, duh. something he could use to try to shut up idiots who wouldn't shut up when he didn't have the slightest clue.

        What is the line?

        Not _again_. He didn't _know_. It separated the window from the desert. If he stayed on it, the desert wouldn't suck him in and neither would the window.

        Why don't you want to be in the window?

        And have people moon him when he couldn't see them? Get real. The window was fun to watch, but he wouldn't want to live there. After all, he'd have to deal with marker-guy _and_ Prima _and_ Sylph _and_ Ravine. The only incentive to be a part of the window-world was, quite frankly, Scaar. And the swordgun, of course.

        Why don't you want to be in the desert?

        What was this, the Galbadian Inquisition? The desert was freaky. Like, _really_ freaky. And dry and cracked and kinda loud, too, what with all the shrieking. And sometimes the sky looked like the ground and the ground looked like the sky. And then they'd _twist_ and everything would be back to normal. Well, normal for the desert.

        What is the Galbadian Inquisition?

        Hyne, he didn't know. It was just a figure of speech. It meant, why is the stupid bodiless voice asking stupid questions?

        Hah! Yeah, take that! How do _you_ like being asked questions? Who are you, where are you, what are you? Do you hold the mystical Scone of Fire of the ancient legend? What do you use it for?

        Yeah, didn't _think_ you'd like that. Now just stay quiet and let me get on with the walking.

***

        Wow, what a ruckus in the window! Obviously, something big was happening. Or going to happening. Bustle, bustle, bustle. Prima was firmly escorted from the room. It looked like Sylph was going to follow her, but seemed to have made a last minute plea-bargain, with Ravine apparently held responsible for her continued good behaviour. Marker-guy took up position by the door; maybe he'd get a chance to see marker-guy and Prima go head to head if the girl tried to come back in. The girl he called Quest was talking to Scaar, apparently calm, unless one could see her fingernail tapping on the whip attached to her belt. Kinky much? Damn, if the window was going to start showing porn . . . . He sighed and thought longingly of being able to sit and watch instead of having to keep moving. It was like he was the antenna, almost, and he could only pick up the signal for the window when he was moving. Sometimes, his life just sucked.

        Sylph joined Quest by Scaar and he watched the hyperactive girl lean forward and touch the tip of a finger to Scaar's forehead. A dim glow of light marked the place her finger touched and he shuddered at the rose light. Rose was just pink, true, but it didn't take much to turn rose straight into red.

        And now everyone was obviously admonishing Scaar to be careful and go slow and try not to be scary. Damn, was Quest a virgin? He wouldn't've thought so, not with that whip, but what did he know? Eventually Scaar did that little annoyed thing he did and waved away everyone. Including Quest. Maybe it wasn't a porno? Or maybe Scaar had to, you know, work up to it.

        He huffed in disappointment when it became obvious the porno was off. How odd for the guy to be the one with the headache, though.

        Ooookay, and now Scaar thought that touching the window with one hand while he tried to massage his headache away with the other was a good idea?

        He blinked. Had everything turned briefly pink or was it just him? Hyne, he hoped everything had. To think it was _him_ who turned everything pink was not a thought to be thought of.

        "How's life going for you?"

        The sudden addition of a voice to his surroundings threw him off balance. In fact, it threw his balance off enough he almost slipped off his line and into the desert.

        "What the hell're you trying to do, kill me?!" he yelled, clutching at his chest. He sent a glare towards the disturbing presence and then . . . .

        Then his jaw dropped. _Scaar_ was there with him. _Right there_ beside him. He frowned and looked down. Correction, _Scaar_ was _floating_ beside him, as if it were every day people just . . . turned up and _floated_ between the line and the window.

        So this is how it feels to meet a movie star. I've always wondered.

        Yeah, well, at least the dummy wasn't asking questions this time.

        "I'm not a movie star."

        The quiet words brought his attention back to Scaar and he snorted. "Never said you were." Funny how his voice wasn't rusty with disuse, wasn't it. "So, what can I do for you, Scaar?"

        "What's happened to you, Seifer?"

        He groaned. Not _again_. Why the hell did he have to put up with asinine questions? He swore that, if his mysterious stupid-ass questioner turned out to be Scaar, he'd kill him, nifty swordgun or not.

        "Swordgun?"

        "What, you can read my mind now? Your swordgun! Your . . . weapon-thing! You killed the Evil Bushes with it!"

        Scaar nodded slowly. "Gunblade."

        He snorted. "Yeah, whatever." Gunblade. Gunblaaaaaade. Well, he didn't know. Maybe it sounded a _bit_ better than swordgun. A thought struck him. "Hey, what didja call me?"

        Scaar seemed almost amused. "Seifer? It's your name, you know."

        He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Seifer, huh? Kinda neat, he supposed, plus he had a wealth of other names he could take from it. Cipher, Seif, Sahifah . . . . Plus the plays he could make on the meaning of its homonym to get Cryptic, Conundrum, Puzzle. Yeah, it wasn't that bad. "No, actually, I didn't. Thanks."

        "So what _are_ you doing here?"

        Seifer—and he savoured the pleasant feeling of being able to label himself now—almost wished for a wall to knock his head on. The questions never gave up, did they? "You know, you seemed a lot quieter in the window."

        "Window?"

        He rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb towards the window where, oddly enough, Scaar could be seen as well. Scaar obediently took a look.

        "Wonderful place you've got here," the newcomer muttered. "You going to answer my question?"

        Seifer sent him an annoyed look. "I'm walking, dummy."

        Scaar made a gesture as if to say he could see that. "Where are you going?"

        "Gee, I'm following this line here. Why don't _you_ tell me where I'm going?"

        "What's with the desert?"

        Well, at least it wasn't a question he couldn't answer. "It's the desert," he replied grudgingly. "It has sand and shit," he added helpfully. And a funky sky, but that was the desert's problem.

        "It reminds me of Time Compression," Scaar said musingly.

        Time Compression. The words sounded familiar, but . . . off, somehow. "Time Kompression," he tried, pleased by the sound of the accent he'd added to it. Exotic. He shivered. Dangerous.

        Scaar whipped his head around. "What did you say?"

        "What, you got potatoes in your ears or something? I've answered a question of yours," Seifer went on when it looked like Scaar was about to say something else, "now you have to answer mine. What're _you_ doing here and in the mirror at the same time?"

        Scaar waved a hand dismissively. "I double-junctioned Carbuncle with you," he said, as if that explained everything.

        Seifer had a nagging feeling he should be pissed. Double-junction? What was a single junction, then? What made it double? Could a person, like, junction something and then turn around and junction it again?

        Scaar made a rude noise. "Dumbass. A double-junction is when two people junction the same GF. It's very dangerous and should never be attempted unless the situation has gone way past 'oh, shit, I'm gonna _die_ ' and is heading straight into 'wow, here I am at the gates of hell' territory." The amusing thing, Seifer reflected, was that the other's voice never rose above a monotone, as if he was reciting form a textbook.

        "And we've somehow reached the gates of hell?" Seifer inquired pleasantly. "My, and me without my best boots on."

        "It's also remarkably useful for getting into someone else's mind," Scaar continued, as if Seifer had not said anything. "The only reason it's not the interrogation tool of choice is that the interrogatee can easily kill the interrogator by breaking the junction. Of course, it would kill _both_ people, but if someone's being interrogated, it's pretty close to a spy's poison pill."

        Interesting. Assuming Scaar started annoying him, he could kill him and thereby not be annoyed by breaking the junction. Assuming he didn't mind dying. Assuming he could, a, find the junction, and, b, figure out how to break it. "And it was so life-and-death that you had to talk to me?"

        "The window is the real world, Seifer. This place we are, it's your own mind." Blunt _and_ cryptic. His luck was skyrocketing.

        "And what if I don't believe you?" After all, he couldn't go around and believe everything he heard. Especially not from people who floated beside him instead of walked.

        "The desert is Time Compression. Or maybe your memories." Scaar passed a hand over his face. "It's . . . hard to know what's what in here. Tell me, Seifer, did you have a tantrum and trash your mind?"

        Seifer looked at his unasked-for companion with a slightly amused air. "Gee, your diplomacy is a thing of beauty, Scaar."

        The man looked startled. "What did you call me?"

        Seifer frowned. "I called you Scaar." He shrugged. "I didn't know your name and I was getting tired of referring to you as 'that guy in the window with the scar on his forehead'. That's all."

        That prompted a faint smile on Scaar's part. "Do you have names for the rest of us?" he asked, gesturing to where the window was now showing an uncomfortable and suspicious Prima. She was alternately glaring at the window and smoothing Scaar's—the Scaar in the window, of course—hair back.

        "Well, yeah," Seifer said slowly. He pointed to the window. "The dark-haired girl? She's Prima, 'cause she always acts like a prima donna or something. The blond with the big mouth and the funky hair, well, I don't really have a name for him. I'd call him marker-guy because of that mark on his face, but, I dunno, it doesn't seem to suit. Maybe Cell? 'Cause he's got the brains of an amoeba sometimes, I swear. The girl in the yellow jumpsuit is Sylph; she's, um, maybe not particularly sylphlike, but it seemed to be a good name for her. Ravine is the guy with the cowboy hat and the big coat with the sheepskin lining. Does he ever get too hot? 'Cause he's always wearing it." A quick look at Scaar told him no answer was forthcoming. "Quest is the chick with the whip, 'cause she's always, y'know, looking for something. Or so it seems to me, anyway." He slanted another look at his companion. "Good 'nough for you?"

        Scaar shared a quick grin with him. "I'd say you hit each of us pretty well. And, yeah, Irvine—that's Ravine— _does_ get hot a lot. But he never admits to it and if you ask him, he goes on about how a sharpshooter must brave the elements and remain true to himself."

        Seifer thought about that for a bit. "So how does sweating like a pig help him remain true to himself?" he asked finally.

        Scaar made a gesture of dismissal. "Image is a hell of a lot for Irvine. Personally, my jacket's hot enough when we're in Balamb; no way would I be dumb enough to wear something as big as he does. Then again, Galbadia Garden _could_ get pretty chilly at night, or so I've heard."

        Irvine. Balamb. Galbadia. Yeah, there was something familiar about each of them, that was for sure. "So what're the others' names?" he asked. Hell, it was worth a shot, wasn't it? He was getting just a bit tired of not knowing who he was. He slanted a glance at the desert beside him. Not _that_ tired, though.

        "Well, there's Rinoa; you called her Prima." Scaar snorted and muttered, "I'm surprised you didn't call her Rhino, honestly. Barging in where she doesn't belong." He raised his voice back to conversational level. "Selphie is your Sylph; she has far too much energy and a . . . disquieting obsession with things that go boom. Zell is Cell. The mark on his face is, by the way, a tattoo. Quest is Quistis; she's our resident know-it-all because she used to be an Instructor. I already told you about Irvine and my name's Squall."

        He turned the sounds of the names over in his mind. A hint of familiarity, yes, but only if he didn't 'look' at it directly. He looked at the desert again. "You really think that thing's my memory?" he asked, jerking a thumb at the desert.

        Scaar— _Squall_ , he corrected himself—squinted into the stomach-turning landscape for a long moment. "I don't know," he said at last. "I see . . . things in there, memories, but they're . . . odd. Distorted."

        Yeah, well, it wasn't like it was a picnic from his vantage point, either. "So why am I so important that you risk both our lives with your double-junction thing just to talk to me?" Third time could be the charm, a person could never know.

        "You're . . . Seifer. And it bothers me to see you amble around out there like your brain's fried."

        Seifer gave him a sharp look. "So you're doing this outta pity?"

        "No," Squall said simply. "I'm doing this so I don't have to pity you anymore."

        Fair enough. He glanced again at the desert. What the hell. Why not?

        "Why not what?" Squall sounded startled, but Seifer didn't let that stop him from facing the desert and taking a deep breath. The wind picked up and whined at him.

        One more breath and he stepped forward.

***

        Everything was here. Nothing was here. He was everything. He was nothing.

        He was the wind whistling as two Gardens sailed into each other.

        He was the gunblade Hyperion, with blood staining him and dulling his quiet shine.

        He was the eyes of the helpless princess as he threw her into a terrifying abyss.

        He was lightning over skin and agonised screams of pain.

        He was snow in the winter and rain in the summer.

        He was sand, dirt, rock, water, ice.

        He was lost, lost, lost, never found. Time, space, they were nothing, pulling him this way and that, impressions and memories burning in him, bringing to every moment a terrifying clarity.

        He was hands gripping his arms, concerned grey eyes. He was a familiar voice asking him unheard questions. He was sleek brown hair buffeted by winds into stinging strands. He was . . . .

        He was pulled from the maelstrom and anchored.

***

        " _You **idiot**_!"

        He grinned up at the brunet from his seat on the line. He thought Squall should get mad more often; it filled him up with fire and fervour and made him look really, really hot. " _You_ said you thought the desert was my memories," he pointed out mildly.

        Squall pulled at his hair, clearly frustrated. " _Thought_ is not a good reason to just jump into something without thinking about it."

        "I thought," Seifer offered. "I thought I was getting damned tired of not knowing who I was. I thought I was getting tired of walking this line and not knowing where it came from or where it ends. I thought it was getting a bit boring—your presence excepted, of course—and I'd rather die for lack of water in the desert than of boredom doing the same thing over and over again." Then he grunted when Squall, with a particularly tight expression on his face, kicked his thigh. "What was that for?" he protested, wounded.

        "For not thinking!"

        Seifer rubbed his injured leg. "Well, I haven't seen any good ideas come outta _your_ mouth. Why don't _you_ tell me what I should do?"

        "Why should I? The last time I said something, you walked off into the desert!"

        Wow, this was a new thing. He'd never seen a grown man sulking like Squall did. If there were ever a sulk contest, Squall would definitely be crowned King of the Sulks.

        "And I don't sulk," the brunet added. Sulkily, of course.

        "You wouldn't say that if you could see yourself now," Seifer said and grinned when that was pointedly ignored. He leaned over and poked Squall's knee. "C'mon, already. Help me with the thinking thing."

        Squall snorted, but turned back to the blond, a slight glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "So you're saying you can't think?" he asked.

        "No, I'm saying I'm tired of being here and two heads are always better than one."

        Squall turned to stare at the window thoughtfully. Then back at the desert and the line again. Then at Seifer, who got progressively more uncomfortably the circuit was repeated.

        "So?" he asked impatiently.

        "The window," Squall said, turning back to him. "Jump through the window."

        "Why?"

        Squall gave an exasperated sigh. " _Now_ you want to think? Now you want reasons?" He gave a thin glare to the blond, but Seifer didn't let that bother him. Squall huffed. "Fine. I think the desert is your insanity. The window is real life; I should know, that's where I'm from. The line is, well, the edge between them, and you're walking on it."

        Seifer nodded. Then he shrugged. "And why should I believe you?" he asked. "If I'm halfway between sanity and madness, what's stopping you from being a figment of my imagination? What's to say I won't die if I jump through that window? Plus, there's all that empty space between this nice, thick line and that floating thing. What if I miss?"

        Squall looked down. "Then, apparently, you fall into the desert."

        Seifer leaned over the edge and blinked, disoriented. Sure enough, the desert stretched out from the edge of the line all the way down. He squinted. Yep, all the way down. Or to the horizon. It rather reminded him of a picture where walls were ceilings and stairs went everywhere physically impossible.

        A firm heel against his shoulder stopped his unconscious lean forwards and he blinked again and looked up at Squall. "I'm not rescuing you again," the brunet said firmly as he pushed Seifer upright again.

        "Gives new meaning to 'don't look down', doesn't it?" Seifer muttered. He carefully refrained from looking any further down than his boots for a long moment. "What will I face if I jump through the window?" he asked finally, tilting his head up. He snorted at the quizzical look Squall gave him. "I'm not an idiot, y'know. Given the way Prima reacts to me, it's probably not that good."

        "Even excepting the way she overreacts to everything?" Squall asked, obviously stalling for time.

        Seifer nodded. "Even so. And it couldn't've been pretty if I'm here and not either in the desert or in the window."

        Squall hesitated. "It was a lot of things," he said at last. "It was your fault for being a nice, caring guy who, incidentally, wanted glory and honour and lots of it. It was our fault for not making sure of our information. It was _her_ fault for twisting you up so much you looked and acted normal. And it was our fault for believing that, too." The brunet looked down at him soberly. "We didn't give you a lot of chances, Seifer."

        "Why are you giving me one now?"

        Squall sighed, frustration clear in it. "Because once the War was over, we _started_ to think." He shared a humourless smile with the blond. "Me, especially, but since you seem to remember shit-all . . . ." He shook his head, a sharp, almost angry motion, and continued, "Once we started thinking, it was fairly obvious you hadn't quite been . . . yourself, no matter how you'd acted." A shrug. "We picked you up, brought you home, and you were this . . . shambling idiot, a good-natured mental cripple who'd follow anyone, given half a chance." Squall snorted. "And we couldn't keep you in the Infirmary, no matter how hard we tried. I knew something of you was still in there, to bypass all that security. The others . . . were not so convinced at first, but, in a shining testament of human nature, soon got fed up rescuing you from all the places you got into." He gave Seifer a particularly cold glare. "Like the Training Center, you idiot. But, yeah, it got them to agree to my plan."

        "Which was to risk your life and sanity and double-junction a GF with me, as I recall," Seifer finished smoothly. "Awright. What happens if I just stay here, then?"

        Squall shrugged. "You keep on being a cheerful mental cripple and I become a comatose one. No one can break a double-junction from the outside and it can't be broken by one person on the inside."

        "And what keeps me from saying yes to your _suggestion_ , breaking the double junction, and then sending you back out there?"

        Squall made a disparaging sound. "Seifer, you didn't even _know_ what a double-junction was. I highly doubt you could fumble your way out of a normal junction."

        Well. The man had a point. He had a few, actually, and did Seifer _really_ want to spend the rest of his life being laughed at? Conclusion: No.

        He held a hand out to Squall and shook it when the brunet just stared blankly at him. "Well, c'mon, gimme a hand up. I'm not gonna be able to make it to the window if I'm sittin' down." Quite unexpectedly, Squall smiled at him and he made a mental note to never, ever make him do it again. It wouldn't be good for his image to go from mindless zombie to drooling zombie.

        "Are you ready?" Squall asked when the blond was standing upright again. Seifer bounced with impatience and Squall shook his head. "I don't know if I'll be able to find you again in the desert," he warned.

        Seifer shot him an annoyed look. "I'm not plannin' on missin', dumbass," was all he said. He faced the window, grey and still now that he wasn't moving along the line anymore. "Ready?"

        "When you are," Squall agreed.

        Seifer took one last breath and firmly shoved his doubts down. Hallucination or not, Squall was the most enjoyable experience he could remember. He crouched down a bit and jumped for the window. Amazingly, his leap carried him not to the edge of the window, where he could have hung on and once again debated his relative sanity, but right through it.

***

        It was the cacophony that brought him back to consciousness. Within and without, it made his head hurt. Hyne, why hadn't he felt Squall's presence in his mind while they were _in_ his mind? Puberty Boy had too many damn thoughts for someone who spoke as much as he did.

         _No picnic, either, dumbass,_ the thought whispered through him. He ignored it and concentrated on wishing someone would just tell every to—

        "Shut the hell up!"

        Startled silence reigned and he sighed in relief, bringing his arm up to cover his eyes. Even though they were closed, he found the light was too bright. Like the sounds where too loud, the smells too strong, and the cloth too rough against his skin. He figured it was the price he had to pay for ignoring his body for who knew how long and then jumping back in after a stint of sensory deprivation.

        "Seifer?" The question was hesitant. And too loud for his ears.

        "Yeah, Messenger Girl?"

        "Seifer, you're back!" His eyes shot open at the gleeful shout and he sat up with the intent of ripping the pain-in-the-ass Selphie a new one. Two things stopped him. One was the crippling headache from moving too fast. The other was the yellow blur that tackled him back down to the bed.

        "What the hell?! Get off me!" He tried to escape her tentacle-like arms, but was forced to submit to the hug as she'd trapped his arms to his sides. "Get off me! What the hell are ya huggin' me for, anyway! You don't hardly know me!" Obviously, one of Selphie's powers was selective hearing, because she kept on cuddling him like a great, big, humiliated teddy bear.

        "Clear out." The voice was Squall's and it cut through the babble that had risen up again with Selphie's cowardly attack on a convalescent. "That means _you_ , Selphie."

        Finally, the iron bands that were suffocating him eased when Selphie loosened her hold to stick her tongue out at Squall.

        " _Now_ , Selphie."

        The brunette got up with a huff of displeasure and wagged her finger at the Commander. "Fine. But make sure you gimme back Carby-chan just as I gave him to you."

        Squall merely nodded and Selphie clambered off the bed and left, turning around before the door closed to give Seifer another little bounce-and-wave. The blond sighed with relief.

        "Is she high?" he asked the ceiling. A hint of a laugh was all the answer he got from Squall; out loud, at least. Internally, he could still feel Squall's humour and resignation in the matter of Selphie. "Right. Then, Carby-chan?"

        "Carbuncle. Selphie lent me her favourite GF for this exercise."

        "Right," he said again. "So, unjunction?"

        "When you're ready."

        He closed his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whenever." He found the junction in his mind and touched it with a cautious 'finger'. Solid work, too, but why would he expect some half-trained effort with Squall controlling it? He felt another's presence crowding him and a moment of perfect clarity as Squall touched his own end of the junction. Then, with a barely acknowledged agreement, they both pulled out simultaneously. It was jarring, disorienting, but worth it, he found, to be alone in his head again.

        Then, "How are you doing?" Squall's voice was soft.

        He stared at the ceiling he had seen too many times through the 'window'. In the depths of his mind, he thought he could still hear the hiss of a desert wind. He turned his head to look at Squall.

        "Yeah, I thought so." The brunet stood up and made for the door. "Report to me tomorrow at o-eight-hundred. We'll see how much work you need then."

        Seifer shifted his gaze to the ceiling. No longer alone in his head, no longer walking that thin line between sanity and insanity. With all his memories, even the ones he didn't particularly want to touch. A desert inside him, trying to beguile him back into it.

        He covered his eyes with his arm again. Right, and a sparring session with Squall the Coldhearted tomorrow morning, too, dammit. Yeah, his life really _was_ looking up.


End file.
